Being a male model is a weird thing.

I went for a jog today and ran by a young handsome fella who was participating in a photo shoot for some periodical. This handsome SOB was wearing a suit and tie on the beach, which was already weird, but what pushed it over the point of being tolerable to this middle aged jogger was that he was rolling around in the ocean, in his suit and tie, with a surfboard while a photographer showered him in superlatives and compliments while snapping pictures.

I was about to walk up to him and smack him upside his handsome sculpted millennial noggin to inform him that, as a former surfer, I’m 100 percent confident that nobody in the world surfs with a suit and tie on, but a few steps shy of doing so I stopped myself.

“Wait, Matt, you used to be that idiot. You had better cheekbones, sure, but otherwise, you were that douchebag. Cut him some slack.”

Like a lot of handsome young dummies full of testosterone and red hot American ambition, I came out to Los Angeles hoping to snag a piece of that Hollywood dream. I did all kinds of silly photo shoots for a couple dollars, and even some more embarrassing ones for free. I know they were embarrassing because my loving family reminds me of how embarrassing they were at least once every couple months by digging up an old picture and sending it back to me in a group text for the entire family to laugh over together.

I’d bet this handsome kid had yet to be anywhere near as foolish as I was. I tried to act. I ended up doing six or seven C level horror films starring C-list celebrities like Lorenzo Lamas, Lemmy from Motörhead, and Ron Jeremy. I did a couple weeks on a daytime soap opera, dating shows, reality shows, infomercials, and several national commercials, and those were the highlights.

I did some modeling (using that word liberally). Modeling for a guy in this town is likely to get sketchy, and I learned that the hard way. It means doing things like rolling around in the ocean in a suit and tie and pretending to surf, or worse, it could mean posing naked in the ocean, with a surfboard, like I did in the picture below.

I was sent on a private modeling gig to David Geffen’s house for an event. When I arrived, I learned that I was the event. The other models I was told would be there were not there. David and I hung out and eventually he wanted a happy ending to our hang.
He did not get a happy ending.
I complained to my booker and he basically told me that this is how it goes “in the biz.”

I got a modeling as a greeter for a birthday party for Sabrina the Teenage Witch. I had to stand outside her front door, wearing nothing but a loin cloth, and feed grapes to all the females entering the party. It was humiliating, but if I’m being honest, it was the kind of humiliation that a guy like me can get behind.

The Teenage Witch deal wasn’t my only loin cloth gig. I was hired to play a Greek God statue outside a celebrity charity even in Hollywood. My entire body was covered in gold, again I wore onlya loin cloth, and I had to pretend to be a statue for two hours. It was about 55 degrees and I was way to cold to maintain statue pose, not to mention that I was feeling a bit overexposed and my Grecian “grapes” were attempting to hibernate, leaving me feeling unimpressive to the A-list actresses that were passing by, looking, judging. The proprietors docked my pay for my inability to strike and hold a pose, or maybe they docked it for my unimpressive grapes, I don’t know, whatever, all I know is I got my money’s worth when Jamie Lee Curtis gave me a slap on the ass (#MeToo). Yes, that really happened.

Like all wanna-be actors, I got roped into an over-priced acting class. For the first time in my life, I became teacher’s pet. You would think that was good, but in this case, not so much. Being teacher’s pet ended with me being somewhat pushed into a sexual relationship with her unattractive daughter in a move that I can only describe to you as being very Harvey Weinstein-ish. That said, doing so, in the crazy world of Hollyweird ended up parlaying into me being asked to attend a private acting session with one of her A-list actresses to help her rehearse for an upcoming audition. It was a romance and there was kissing and I’ve bragged to this to almost everyone I know, so, all-in-all, sleeping with the teacher’s unattractive daughter was a price worth paying in order to get to suck face with this attractive A-lister.

At one point, I got sucked into a gig that actually turned out to be a front for an underage porn ring being run by a former assistant football coach from the University of Pittsburgh. Once I caught wind of it, I went to the police and they allowed me to do some legit undercover type stuff. It was one of the more exciting things Ive ever been a part of, and some day I’ll have to tell that entire story front to back, but that time is not now.

I landed a contract for a calendar gig. I thought it would be eleven other dudes and myself pretending to be firemen or something, but in another twist, when I got there, it was just me. Twelve months of me wearing an American flag speedo in some odd calendar that I can only assume was for really gay people who were also super patriotic. If people weren’t suspecting my sexually before this calendar, they definitely were after. In fact, the photographer, at the end of the shoot, felt the need to tell me that I had gotten him very excited and that he might love me. He then proceeded to stalk me for no less than one year. I’d often find him sitting on my stoop when I’d get home from work. Regardless of how often I called the cops, this continued, until finally I beat him up, took his camera, and ran over it with my car.

Even when I wasn’t getting paid, I was making a spectacle of myself. I was something of a junkie for trying to raise the stakes at any event. I liked to push boundaries. I was playing in a charity volleyball tournament, we were in the semi-finals, and we were losing, so I negotiated five points for my team by taking off my pants and doing a half mile loop around the beach (To all the mothers and young children, I’m sorry). We still lost the match, but at least I gave a lot of people a memory they’d never forget, no matter how hard they tried.

So, jogging today, I wanted to smack that kid and tell him that he might regret his decision to do this one day. But I didn’t. Though I didn’t want to see it at first, he was just chasing a dream, like I was. I’m hoping he makes it. I’m hoping he turns himself into the next Ashton Kuchter or whomever the newest young male model is that made it into a big star. Good for him for chasing his dreams. Too many people are afraid to go for it because they’re afraid to look silly or they’re afraid to fail. So what if he looks like a total jerk in his suit and tie, rolling around in the ocean- he’s going for it, and for that alone he should be proud. He’s more courageous than at least 90% of the people I know, who really want something, but have never taken step one towards getting it.

Or, possibly, he’s just a total moron.

But whatever.

Todays Edition of “Pooping At McDonalds”

In today’s daily edition of “Pooping At McDonalds: we have an age old tale that dates back to prehistoric times when Cro-Magnon man and his buddy had just polished off the last of a giant mastodon carcus and were having words (or probably just grunts) over who got to use the local sink hole first-

As all of the regular followers of this page know, I pay my bills and feed my family by working in the home health industry.
To those of you who don’t follow, you are probably already wowed by my crazy literary skills and likely shocked that I can’t support a family of four, in Los Angeles, on my writing skills alone, and believe me when I tell you, I am just as shocked as you. Alas, it is true, I work in the home health industry to be able to feed my family.
Anyway, here we go-

In the home health industry, our office is our car.

So is our bathroom.

Unless that bathroom is needed for a #2 (that means poop, for those of you that don’t have children), in the case of a #2, our bathroom is McDonalds.

After fifteen years of working in this industry in Los Angeles, there isn’t a gang sign engraved toilet seat in all of Los Angeles that my beautiful buttocks hasn’t squatted on. Why gang bangers want to tag and claim toilet seats in McDonalds, knowing full well that bare-assed home health and homeless people (these are basically the same people) will be squatting on their engraved gang names all day, will never make sense to me, but whatever. Maybe this is the reason why I’ve never been asked to joint a gang.

Anyway, nine of every ten times, everything goes smoothly at McDonalds.
But then there’s those other times when The Bride made her famous jumbalaya breakfast dish, and things are prone to get complicated.
Today, at a McDonalds in Inglewood, was one of those times.

I’m sitting there, for all of twenty seconds, when a large, unkempt person with dreadlocks and a carefully crafted body fragrance that smelled of urine and tequila, walked in, and, if I stuck my tongue out into the air, I could tell that the urine smell was of two varieties of urine.
I commend this gentleman, that’s commitment to a standard right there. The world would be a better place if we all worked as hard at our crafts as this man worked at maintaining his special fragrance.

Anyway, he approached the stall and began looking at me through the crack.

“Yo, bro, you almost done?” he asked.

I wanted to ignore him, but I’d already made the mistake of making eye contact, and, unfortunately, I couldn’t break said eye contact.
He had me locked and loaded.

“Dude, no, I’m not almost done. Please go away.”

He started knocking, still not breaking eye contact with me, nor me with him. It was intense and something either horrifying, or magical, was likely to happen.
My money was on horrifying.

“Yo, brother, you need to hurry that shit up, you’ve been in there all day,” he said.

“I’ve literally been in here less than a minute. Trust me, I don’t want to be in here any longer than necessary.”

He began banging harder.
“Bro, I’m telling you, get the fuck out!”
At this point, he grabbed both sides of the stall and began jiggling the entire thing.

Me- “I could probably get through this more quickly if you stopped shaking the stall and staring at me. It kind of makes me clench up.”

Him- “Oh, you a comedian now? Hurry up, funny man. I ain’t fucking with you and you know that shit true,” he said, now rhyming for some reason.

At this point, I had but two options. I could pinch off, pull up my pants, and leave, or I could try my best to just ignore him. I didn’t have a change of clothes and still had a full day of work ahead of me, so I decided to push through.
The bathroom poet continued to bang and shake, and I closed my eyes and tried to get into a zen state of mind so I could finish business.

Driving on the 405, in Los Angeles, during rush hour, every single day for the past 15 years, I’ve learned how to quickly accept the reality of my situation and patiently press through. I tell myself, “this is your reality, this is what you are doing now. Accept it. Accepting is half the battle.”
Typically, after that, I can get through anything.
And again today, it worked.
After about thirty seconds, I was able to accomplish the mission. Now, all I needed to do was clean up.

I opened my eyes to find the toilet paper.

The bathroom poet had his face pressed up against the crack now, one eye and his nose were actually poking through. Maybe he was trying to smell my business for some weird reason, maybe he was intrigued and wanted to add it to his own fragrance, or maybe he was just trying to isolate his nose from the rest of his body, so that he could get a quick break from smelling himself.
He was no longer knocking or shaking the stall. He looked completely insane and I was a bit frightened that he wanted to make me his girlfriend.
Though I’m pretty sure you already made that assumption regarding my state of mind.
However, I give all the details when I tell a story. This is another example of what separates me from your average every-day writer, and puts me on another stratosphere of excellence, and is yet one more example of why it’s baffling that I can’t support a family of four on my writing skills alone.

“Listen brother, I’m going to wipe myself now. Would you kindly look away?”

“I ain’t yo’ brother, homie; homie don’t know me,” he said, rhyming up a storm.

And so, I wiped myself clean, with a strange poet eye raping me through the crack of the stall.
Yes, I realize I just compared this experience to rape, and yes, I get that this is wrong, and yes, I know that this will probably get me some hate letters, but there’s just two things to know:
1- I can’t think of a better way to describe the experience than to call it an eye raping.
2- I love hate mail. No, seriously, I love it. Maybe it’s because I’m so extremely talented and popular and loved that I need the hate mail to keep me humble, and I’m like, the most humble person of all time, and my humble nature is probably one of the reasons so many people adore me so much.

At any rate, wiping myself while being eye raped by the bathroom poet was every bit as horrible as it sounds.

Eventually, I finished my business. Luckily, it only required a couple swipes back there. The Bride had helped me do a little grooming back there a few days before, which was good timing in relation to this event. I mean, I’m Italian. Sometimes, back there, it’s like trying to get peanut butter out of a shag carpet…
Again, that’s another example of my incredible writing skills. That’s an analogy you won’t find elsewhere in the world of literary excellence.
I stood, tucked in my business, pulled up my drawers, opened the stall, and tried to squeeze past the poet (he didn’t give up an inch of space for me to squeeze past), I avoided eye contact, went to the sink, and began washing my hands.

I had a plan.

Once I saw, under the stall, that his pants were around his ankles, I was going to give the poet some of his own medicine. There is absolutely zero reason to accept what this person did, and he needed to be taught the way I teach my children- by making him experience his own behavior, directed back at him.
Society only survives when we exercise a little common courtesy and kindness. Without it, we have a Mad Max futuristic dystopian existence in which only the strong survive, and I don’t think there’s much of a market for writers in said society, so I’m pressing for the continual common courtesy and kindness from human to human.

Anyway, I wanted to wait until his pants were around his ankles so he couldn’t just open the stall and run after me. I mean, the guy was very large and he was obviously crazy. I wasn’t about to fight a large crazy man in a McDonald’s bathroom. That’s a lose-lose proposition.
I mean, even if I win the fight, I come out of it smelling like two different varieties of urine.

I heard the belt buckle.
I saw the pants drop.
I made my big move.

Banging on his door, rhyming- “Yo, bro, yo, you almost done; I’m out here ’bout to have some fun.”

Him (completely unaware of the reality that I was the same guy he was just fucking with)- “I just got in here mutha fucka, back the fuck up.”

Me- “Yo homie, I’m feeling pretty loose, about to drop a steamy deuce.”

Him- “Fuck off, faggot weirdo.”

At this point, I began shaking the stall, just like he was doing.

“I’m going to poop right outside your door man, you need to hurry.”

Now, just to make it all fair, I leaned into that crack, and made a face like I was trying to let one go. And now I’m going to tell you why you don’t fuck with crazy large men that like to rhyme and who smell like two varieties of urine while in McDonald’s restrooms-

Because it is impossible to anticipate their next move.

With my face pressed to the crack, he lifted a boot and kicked the stall door as hard as he could.
He broke the stall door, and he also mashed the shit out of my right eye.
It seriously hurt.

Then, the slam poet stood up, naked and unafraid, tiny black dick swinging somewhere within the gigantic full bush that was hanging between his tree trunkular Hulk Hogan legs, and he came at me.

Luckily, I’m fast as fuck and his pants were around his ankles. I side-stepped the man, he lunged at me, he fell, and I ran as fast as my legs would take me, leaving that McDonalds, noting to never return.

This has been at 100% true story (actually, it’s probably about 97% percent true. Great writers like me are allowed some creative liberties) I hope you enjoyed today’s daily episode of “Pooping at McDonalds”

If you were not entertained, it’s on you.
If you have a nasty comment to make, please go to http://www.facebook.com/hedadssohard. The most creative insult wins free tickets to the McDonald’s poet poetry slam debut at the Burger King in Lomita, Saturday night.

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